


Blacktop Tango (tell me about your mother)

by cobblepologist



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arkham Asylum, Cannibalism, Codependency, Electroconvulsive Therapy, Emotional Manipulation, Gore, Hallucinations, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Idealization, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jealousy, M/M, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Not as dark as the tags make it seem, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Psychosis, Stalking, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, autassassinophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-13 06:48:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13565106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobblepologist/pseuds/cobblepologist
Summary: When they are finally clothed, Edward allows himself to look at the drying strands of his hair, the dark lashes framing his eyes. The only word that comes to mind is sublime, like he is some beautiful, terrifying, indescribable thing. Oswald recalls more of the mountain than the hiker. Edward comes to fear the storm.AU where Edward and Oswald meet for the first time in Arkham Asylum.





	Blacktop Tango (tell me about your mother)

**Author's Note:**

> tiny playlist for this:  
> [1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPEkzupLMMg) / [2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mev1IgxVjnk) / [3](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Te_9_ANLzMg) / [4](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RirM3v5bZiQ)

Edward sees him as soon as he walks into Arkham. Something changes immediately; he can feel the static in the air, and although the man hadn't spoke a word, there was power there, thinly veiled behind his skin. He's immediately craning his head to get a better look, wishing he could slide through the bars like water- his view of the entrance was unnaturally obstructed at this angle, but he manages to get just enough. For such a small man, he carries himself so well. Kingly. Hatblack hair, piercing eyes, hooked nose, a limp- he knows something the others don't. That he's the most important man in the room. Edward twitches involuntarily. Norton is at his side, and he has absolutely no desire to sate the man currently- but he's grabbing at him, pinching flesh under stripes. He can afford to ignore him for a moment longer. And as they're walking this mystery this conundrum this _riddle_  down the corridor, he looks in, straight into Edward's eyes.

Time stops.

A sneer.

It occurs to him, perhaps too late, that he had indeed seen him once before in person. Back when Edward had worked at the GCPD, this man had burst into the building, saved Jim Gordon's name just by saying his own name. Deus ex machina. Edward had been stricken. But this is the first time he had looked at him and had the man see him in return.

As soon as it's over, Norton has a canine pawing at his wrist, and Edward slides him a piece of the jigsaw puzzle he had been working on before the disturbance had caught his attention.

He doesn't need it anymore.

* * *

He manages to persuade Strange into sharing a morsel of information with him. It's cuisine. Feast for the fasting.

Oswald Cobblepot. "The Penguin." Committed for murder, assault and battery, arson, robbery, fraud, extortion, bribery, et cetera. Thirty-one. Five foot six. Mother recently deceased.

It's so much, but he needs more. He digs harder and harder, presses Peabody and every other inmate for anything, _anything_  on the man. He jots it all down in his notebook, one of the few luxuries afforded to him at Arkham. There are already papers littering his walls, but he tears down all of these plans rabidly, presses this new puzzle to his wall. Nothing has ever overtaken him as quickly as this, high tide, and he absorbs this with gunright quickness. Arkham's new darling has turned Ed inside out, just with a look. He can't wait to meet him.

The pieces will fall into place, they always do.

* * *

The next day, he's finally allowed into the mess hall with the rest of them. Edward had been standing in the corner, nothing but waiting. Food could never be as important as this show. The man- _Oswald_ \- surveys the room. Hawk, vulture, maybe, but not Penguin. Nigel throws something at him.

Just as Edward had instructed him to.

"Look! Penguin pie!"

Seething. The man quickly finds his way on top of one of the tables, kicking over an inmate's- Daryl's- tray. A quiet apprehension in his anger. "There seems to be some confusion," He enunciates wonderfully. Edward's entire person hinges on hearing him talk, now. "My name is Oswald Cobblepot. Many of you, no doubt, will have heard of me. Some of you, clearly, have not. For those poor, ignorant souls, I offer illumination. I am not a man to be trifled with." Walks the table end to end. Laugh like a silver bell. "Oh, no. I am powerful. I am vicious! I'm King of Gotham."

Edward feels like he's underwater, the sound of Oswald's voice coming to him in a surpressed, curbed kind of hiss. He's holding his breath. See how long he can make it before needing to come back up for air, Oswald front and center.

"He thinks he's the king of Gotham." They erupt at that. Boil over. They repeat it to themselves, over and over again, familiarizing, racous. Dance on the tables. Someone else shouts "off with his head!"

Retreating. He looks so small, as if the half a foot Edward had was emphasized by defeat. Prison, or any equivalent, is hard without friends. And he has no one.

Perfect.

* * *

"Penguin."

He barely gives any indication that he's heard Edward as the taller man seats himself across from him. Arms crossed, looking down, the smallest upward glance through his bangs- it makes him look scarier. Edward suppresses a quiver.

"It's _Oswald_."

"I'm a _big_  fan." Edward licks his lips.

Oswald looks unimpressed. Edward begins to wonder if there had been others, anyone else as interested, as obsessed. He'd collect their heads for Oswald, make a treasure map of where their bodies are buried, send it in a postmarked envelope. Spray his cologne on it. If all their correspondences take on that form, he'd be set for life.

Under the fluorescents, Oswald's eyes look painfully light. "For how long?"

"Since yesterday." He laughs in reply, a choking sound, his head finally tilting up. Ed's very being ready to wage war for this man. "I know all about you. I _need_  to know all about you. Tell me more."

Oswald blinks, slowly. Drinking him in. No reply. "I snuck in and stole your case file."

There's a smile. "However did you do that, you wicked boy?"

Everything inside of him vibrates, tingles, hums with the need to be closer to Oswald, hear more and more of these wonderful names. He simply smiles and says "it wasn't hard." Withholding this information from Oswald might instill a darker desire in this man. Maybe he'll learn him, inside and out, sleeping in his bunk, never parting from him. Taking his organs, pulling softly at tissue that won't heal with how often Oswald tugs at it. He wouldn't mind.

But it doesn't happen then, there. They are ushered outside, into the cold, and Edward does his best not to look horrified. Oswald just shoots a positively evil glance, smirking in his direction, before they part.

* * *

He spends the night recalling all of their interaction, writing "you wicked boy' on the wall to dissect. His mind jumps over the way he pronounces his words, the slight lilt to his voice. It's all terribly lonely, but one must pass the time.

The next day, around noon, Oswald makes the mistake of insulting Helzinger. "Belligerent oaf who doesn't _know his place_." Vein pops, knuckles crack, and he's lurching for the small man. Edward intervenes, body slotting unevenly between the two.

"Aaron, Aaron, hush," Edward's hand placates, stretches over Helzinger's shirt. He can feel Oswald's eyes mirror the motion, following him. "Oswald sees people that aren't there. Someone invisible, beside you. People we can't see." He whispers that last part like it's a secret. Helzinger looks disoriented. Animal in a cage. "It's true. That's what's wrong with him. He was yelling at someone who was going to hurt you. Trying to scare them off."

Oswald doesn't respond well to that, hides behind Edward, arms clutching tightly to his biceps. He wants to stand up for himself but the comforting weight of Edward in front of him is intoxicating, warm, irresistible. The tightening of his hand lets him know that he's done it, proved his worth. Valuable. Oswald will _need_  him in here. "He thinks he saved you," he whispers to Helzinger. "He was worried they were going to hurt you."

It takes him a while to calm Aaron down, whilst Oswald takes his chance to escape to a hard metal chair on the far side of the room. He sits down next to him afterwards, pushing his glasses up.

"Better to have them think you're crazier than you actually are."

Oswald side-eyes him, and Edward burns under that icy gaze. "You handled that very well."

"Helzinger is easy to persuade once you know what makes him tick." He smiles. Sign of aggression. Demonstrate value. Worthy. "I know about all of them. I write everything down. It's good to know what the shrinks know."

"Do you keep notes on me?"

Edward frowns. "Please, Oswald, don't be absurd. You're plastered against my entire wall. I have written entire novels about you."

"You lied so convincingly about the psychosis." Deflecting. Is he uncomfortable with that? Edward knows there was nothing particularly telling in his fabrications, but Oswald can see right through him. Important in an ally, deadly in an enemy.

"I might know a thing or two."

"Hm," Oswald barely answers. He's turned to face him now. "We all need friends, I suppose. Even imaginary ones."

"Well, I haven't imagined you."

Oswald looks at him with a fondness he's never seen in his direction. He wants to carve that moment into every crevice of him.

That night, he begins to clip pictures of Oswald from old newspapers. He needs to see him, on his collage, in the dark, when he's retired to his own bunk. Never apart, essence seeping in and staining the brick of his walls. He wants Oswald to fill his vision at any given moment.

* * *

No one else.

Ed has no time for anything else, after all. Ruined. He's a mess, Oswald's mess, a trail that he leaves behind wherever he goes. Lays violets at the man's feet, offers him a choice between blood or the heart itself.

They're always so close, leaning across the table at dinner, conspiratorial, secret, Oswald speaking just for him. Just the tone of his voice is enough to set his nerves alight. They plot. No one questions the way they situate themselves, Edward fiddling with Oswald's right hand, as one in his position should do. Their own private Babylon.

Oswald is always so open. His Tesla among savages, he calls Ed. The electrical current joke is not lost on him.

Ed thinks about them taking turns shocking each other. Mad with power, he laughs.

Proximity creates some unwarranted fantasies for him. As soon as he feels Oswald's presence, the room evaporates before him. He thinks of Norton's tongue on his face, revulsed, but Oswald's- Oswald chewing his wrist to the bone. Flexing his fingers to see delicate tendons at work before Oswald snaps them with his teeth. Eating him alive.

Its a wonderful daydream, one he often has right in front of Oswald. Stares at him during lunch and wonders what it would be like to have those yellowed teeth run over his veins, sink deep and draw blood. He can't help but yelp a few times when his imagination gets too detailed, garnering a questioning stare from Oswald.

"One of your imaginary friends?" Oswald prods, jokingly, but there's no malice. They're both in this asylum, after all.

"No, just... Thinking too much."

"As you always seem to do. Perhaps you should take a break."

Edward is about to voice a confused protest when Oswald runs a hand over his arm, pulls him close gently.

The food is never to his liking. Edward watches him fiddle with it, push around stale cornbread with his fork. His left hand, his free hand, intertwines with Edward's right, resting inconspicuously on the bench.

"What do you miss the most?" Edward leans forward, chin in hand, watching at Oswald pick at scraps.

He screws up his face in return. Distaste looks good on him. "Lobster."

"And?"

"Three-piece suits. Baths. Hair gel. Better beds. _Canes_."

Ed hums in agreement, transfixed by the motion of his silverware. He has noticed how hard it is on Oswald to stalk around lately, cold air certainly not beneficial. He makes a mental note to see if he can help, somehow, procure some aid or massage the pain out of his tendons.

"Tell me about your mother," Edward says, jokingly, as Hugo walks by in the corridor, affording the two of them a sour look. Oswald freezes completely, and he remembers that- how could he forget how how _how_  he rereads his notes every _single night_ -

"She was a saint," Oswald whispers mournfully, attention back on his food. "There were no limits to her kindness, or her patience, or her love."

Edward squeezes his hand harder, like pressing him will cause the tears welling in his eyes to fall away. "I have daddy issues," he swallows, half-hearted attempt at more humor. This one might succeed. "That's what the doctors always want to know about."

"I never met mine."

"Sometimes it's better that way." More serious. Oswald eyes him curiously, but Edward smiles widely, says, "Are you going to eat that brownie?"

* * *

Oswald often finds himself in Edward's bed, tucked under his arms. Edward tries not to think of the implications, of how this would never happen on the outside, but Oswald is a living, breathing body next to him, hands entwined painfully with his. It's necessity. As loathe as he had been to admit it, Oswald was touch-starved, needed warmth against the concrete.

"I need you to stay," he can barely see Oswald in front of him with his glasses off, but there's the blur of a frown.

"I shouldn't."

"You _should._ "

"We belong together."

Squinting. Oswald squinting back. "What?"

"You and me. We need each other in a place like this. Even outside, we'd have been perfect." Even if Oswald is not his, Edward is most definitely his. He'd even let him discard him, if it suited him.

Sighs tiredly. "Whatever will I do with you?"

"Whatever you like."

* * *

Strange has noticed his new diversion. He jots down notes on Edward's notes. It's redundant, Edward thinks. His office is too bright, angry in the daylight.

"Your interest in Cobblepot seems much more... extreme than I previously thought. More so than with any other patient." The drawl of his voice sliding over his clipboard.

Edward scoffs, slumped over the right of his chair, chin on fist. "He _understands_  me. Do you know how rare that is?" Glares at him like sunlight on a windowpane. "Who am I kidding? Of course you don't."

Hugo writes a quick note at that. "You're more argumentative than usual." Lies. He was always antagonistic to Strange. "It seems that he has some effect on you. You are... quite territorial, Edward."

He swallows, anxious. "I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do, Edward."

The session ends there.

* * *

They always shower at the same time, side by side. Edward is efficient with his time, but Oswald will, every so often, take the time to meticulously scratch away any dead skin he can reach with his nails. Part of Edward wonders if it's a habit he had always had, or one he developed here; he knew Oswald was used to baths. Deeper down, he knows it's being _here_ , in this dilapidated, crumbling building, (not even fit for condemnation really, left behind as a testament to failure,) that causes this urge in him. Sometimes he frowns, feels as if Oswald is washing away every trace of him left, the places he has begun to touch. He always drags his hands over him afterward, and Oswald smiles.

Perhaps Strange was right; the two of them had collided with such intensity that Edward could not pull away, unattach himself from this man. His hands are blistered and burnt from just trying to touch his light, but he won't stop, not now, when he's so close to the answer. Oswald was a catalyst, the beginning of his metamorphosis, and he is becoming who he was meant to be because of this man. What that is remains a mystery, why even more so.

When they are finally clothed, Edward allows himself to look at the drying strands of his hair, the dark lashes framing his eyes. The only word that comes to mind is sublime, like he is some beautiful, terrifying, indescribable thing. Oswald recalls more of the mountain than the hiker. Edward comes to fear the storm.

Times like this they are often silent, as if waiting for some action to break the fragile balance. It begins to feel as if they could read each other's minds, the way they had become so close so fast, magnetized.

"I think," Edward says finally, in the common room. "I'd let you kill me. If you wanted."

They're sitting on the floor, against the wall, below the window, not close enough. No one has paid them any mind, and Edward watches the scenes in front of him blankly, arm outstretched over his knee, while Oswald's head snaps to his right to look at him. "Why?"

"That's the riddle, isn't it?" Edward pushes his glasses back up, still not looking at him. "Why are you so important, Oswald? No, scratch that. Why are you so important _to me_?"

Oswald remains quiet. Helzinger's arm is coming down to crush Nigel's throat.

* * *

"It's going to rain," Oswald says to him sometimes, looking off, eyes twinkling, and he would be able to pinpoint these moments more accurately if it didn't feel like they had been here for so long. Insanity takes a lot out of him. It happens often enough. "I can feel it."

He admires this about Oswald, this secret sixth sense. Sensitivity in changes to barometric pressure. Although it causes him to ache, Edward suspects there's something to that feeling. They both love the rain, the only nights they sleep well enough, the pounding and occasional thunder drowning out any screams down the hall.

These are the good nights, the nights Oswald sneaks into Edward's room as soon as the guards are gone. Leaves a light on for him, candle in the fog, lighthouse to find his way home.

A tangle of limbs and thoughts, Ed's chin fitting neatly on Oswald's head. The bed is more comfortable. His hand unconsciously finds its way to his neck, the soft spot under his ear and behind his jaw. He twists painfully inside, remembers Kristen. While the era after was horrific, time has been his friend, but the thought of doing _anything_  to hurt Oswald terrifies him. He is afraid he will push his thumb down too far, move his hand and suffocate, as he is destined to. Burdened with destruction. He waits for it.

Nothing happens.

Instead, Oswald hums appreciatively at the gesture, nuzzles into it, even. It seems to soothe him into an almost-sleep, free hand coming around to wrap Edward's arm around his waist. Oh, oh, that's better than Edward could have ever imagined; for all his fantasizing about Oswald killing him, this is even more fulfilling.

* * *

Rudy approaches Oswald while Edward is too wrapped up in him to even notice anything in his periphery. He had spent the better part of the hour looking between him and their plans, no, agenda, always on time, on schedule, in sync. Rudy- he guesses it's Noah, actually, the second personality, from the body language- creeps up on him, looking at Oswald.

"I brought you something," he announces, and Edward is already seething. If looks could kill, and oh, but he does. He hands Oswald a poorly constructed origami flower. But that was his trick. He white knuckles the chair's armrest.

Oswald has this amused grin on his face. "Why, thank you...?"

"Noah."

"Thank you, Noah."

He hates that, the fondness in his voice that is normally only reserved for him. It feels like every part of Edward has contracted, muscles clenched into a singular thought. Rudy smiles bashfully at Oswald, like he deserves to even be near him. Like he understands what Edward and Oswald, Oswald and Edward understand, can be a part of this thing between them.

Oswald starts to talk, murmuring "Edward?" nurturingly, concern echoing. There's a soft hand on his elbow, and as heady as that makes him, it's not enough to stop him from lunging at Rudy, pushing him farther until he hits the wall with a painful sound. Rudy whimpers. His hand goes for his throat instinctually, but he's not aware if he's talking. He must be, the last time he did this, he couldn't help but plead possessively with Kristen, chiming love love love to his darling. It must be the same if Oswald prompted this out of him.

But too soon, a hand is veering him away, that same grip, and he is able to stop himself. It takes willpower he only possesses in his presence to back off. He'd do whatever Oswald asks, explicit or not. With a shuddering breath, he calms himself, a space between him and his object of deathly desire. Whichever one that was.

"I will _gut_  you if you so much as look at him again, _Rudy_."

"I-I'm, I'm not Rudy..." He gestures timidly.

"You're not the only one with another _you_ , Rudy- you're making him  _very_  mad-" He's trying his best to whisper it to him, but he's unsuccessful. He'll deal what that means for him and Oswald, what that'll change about how Oswald sees him, later. The other him is relishing this. The prettier him, the one who he knows Oswald would fawn and cherish if he would just let him take charge- No.

He stalks away.

* * *

"What is it exactly that you feel for me, Edward?"

Ed peaks up from his book, to the other side of his bed. Oswald is inspecting his handiwork, fingertips tracing the delicate taxidermy of his life, laid out on Edward's wall.

"You're interesting." The response makes Oswald frown, but he doesn't stop reading Edward's notes. He tacks on, "the most interesting person I've ever met."

"Is that all?"

"Of course."

Oswald settles back down on his bed, but the frown doesn't leave his face. Something's wrong. A new mark is etched on him. Disappointment? He manages to lift himself off the bed, as if some mental struggle as opposed to a physical one. Edward watches him with the same keen interest he always has. "Where are you going?"

"I need some time to think," is all he says. He's left mouth open, head cocked, gun cocked.

Oswald does not return to him, and for the first time since his institutionalization, he feels like he really will go mad. He was a grounding force.

So close. Worked so hard to get here, and one response- that had to be it- crushing down, straw breaking penguin's back.

Every inch of him screams for solution. He won't have it. Writes possibilities and questions and answers in his notebook. Scratches marks into his arm when he runs out of paper. More like reminders of what he's done wrong. He's divided, between Oswald and the number five five five five five, and he etches it into the wall next to his mugshot.

When he finally drags himself out of the dark dampness of his room, he looks around, careful. Skittish. He yearns for light, Oswald's sea eyes and a pale expanse of skin, beseeching. Like a moth to death. He can hardly care as he stalks around corners, finally reaching him. He's in his own room.

"Oswald-" He begins as if he even knows what he wishes to say. Part of him thought the truth would finally come flooding out of him, unbidden, still unknown to even him. Panacea. It doesn't, and he stands there like a fool.

" _What?_ "

"I've... where have you been?" Oswald narrows his eyes at that. "I've had such a hard time without you. I wish you would talk to me again." It's honest enough, but simply not enough.

"Why? So you can take more notes?" Part of him assumes that Oswald will stab him as soon as he gets to his feet. He relishes the thought, and it's funny. Talking to him is more nerve-raking than the thought of physical violence. He still welcomes it, in fact. "I'm not a _pet project_ , Ed."

Edward frowns as he draws closer, almost nose to nose. There's that intimidation he craved when he saw him. "I never said you were."

"I'm not something for you to _study_ ," and _oh_ , is he fierce, body pressed against Edward in a way that suggests he has a weapon. Slit his throat. He shivers.

"No, that's not what I want-"

"Then what _is_  it?" Hiss. Crack. Static. "Do you even know, yourself? Or are you wasting everyone's time?"

"I- I don't know _yet_." Oswald's lips a thin line. "I just need more time to figure it out- don't _leave_ , don't go." His eyes soften somewhat, grip dissolving into a comfortable weight "I need you here to understand." And then, vicious, shoves Edward away.

"It's always about what _you_  need, isn't it, Edward?" He longs to hear the shorter man call him Ed, Eddie, dear, dearest, anything else. "Unfortunately, I have other things to do than care for some sad man who doesn't know what he wants."

It's much crueler than Oswald had ever been, at least to _him_. He finds his hands outreaching of their own accord as Oswald retreats, fingers dancing along the shrinking stripes.

* * *

His eyes are sunken and sullen. He leaves his room when commanded, returns, voices drowning out the background noise of wailing. _You're not looking like yourself what happened can't stand to be alone Eddie hate what you are when you've got no one to watch?_  Rolls over onto his side, tries again. The floor hurts, but not as much as the image of his father, pulling strings of viscera and magic out from his stomach. He almost retches at the sight. His other self cackles next to his door.

Kristen opens her mouth to smile at him, but her teeth fall out. She picks them up and lays them down in a circle around him. It's such a small room for the four of them. He hauls himself on the bed out of a need to shrink away from them, sitting up for the first time in what feels like forever. His back aches. The other him walks forward, leaning over him, presses his lips to his own. His father screams. _Queer. Queer. Queer_. The flooring fissures as he comes out of the earth to grab at Edward's ankles, drag him down to his level. _I didn't raise no faggot sissy boy_. The walls are decorated with belts. They sing a metallic elegy. _Don't you run away from me._ He screams.

Hours later, (maybe a day, maybe more,) when he comes to, he can't stop laughing. Wasn't he supposed to be getting better in here? Oswald's very presence was like medication. They didn't need to choke him with Risperidol when he was around

Speak of the Devil.

"Miss me?" His eyes flutter sensuously. He scrambles madly for him, until neurons screech to a halt and he examines his outfit. White tie and a top hat. Something would have happened if Oswald had escaped, he would've _known_. He can't be real.

This Oswald frowns when he sees the realization dawn on him. "I thought I could've at least fooled you for a few minutes, but I suppose you can't fool yourself."

That libelous mind of his.

"You seem to be nothing without me." Oswald's eyes twinkle in the darkness. "Whatever did you do before I was committed?"

Edward's head tilts against the wall, eyes shifting downwards to observe him. Adam's apple bobbing. "Waited for you to show up."

"Is that true?"

"It might as well be." Lolls his head to the side. Waves dance around Oswald's feet. The room's going to flood.

He hums, struts over to his bed, lays himself out. Like a French girl or a corpse in the morgue. "You're so pretty when you smile," Oswald croons, sing-song. "Can you imagine if we had met before, met by night? Danced in the shade of the trees and Gotham's towers?" He seems fuzzy around the edges for a second, incoherent, but then he comes back into sharp focus suddenly. Like adjusting a camera lens. "My Eddie boy, I know how much of you was lost here. Lucky I came when I did, otherwise there'd be nothing of you left." He brings a hand to his face, caressing and careening. "We can escape together, soon."

Five characters in search of an exit, but they're all him.

* * *

It's three days before anyone looks for him. The asylum doesn't run as well as people think. He hears an uneven gait somewhere, far away, and hears a knock at his door. "Ed?"

His voice doesn't work.

Oswald is immediately at his side. "What have you _done_  to yourself?" He inspects the nonsensical scratches on his arms, the state of disarray his room is in, eyes staring intently into Edward's. He still can't speak, only furrows his brows slightly, and Oswald is uprighting him, pushing him onto the bed with some reservoir of strength. Before he blacks out, he feels his head in his lap, fingers in his hair.

Darkness overwhelms him.

Oswald is gone when he awakes, and he feels as though it was another figment, like his subconscious was giving him what he wants for once. Not that vehement, teasing Oswald of before. His eyes blur as he manages to sit up, and several minutes go by with him gazing at nothing in particular, until he hears a knock at the door.

And there he is. Again. Oswald is carrying two trays of food, two bottles of water. "You're awake!" He sets them down gently on the bed. Rushes over to kneel before Ed. He frowns in return. He knows his knee must be protesting.

"I-" Edward starts, throat painful and raw. "You didn't need to come for me. You could have left me here."

Gaze sympathetic and knowing. "Don't be ridiculous, you would've died without me coming in here."

"I'd die without you anyways."

Sigh. He's tired. Looking down, then up. "Edward-"

"I love you," he blurts out, and Oswald's eyes go oceanwide. Shit. Fumbling to recover, "I-I think that's why, I've been so drawn to you, since I first saw you, why I want this, you, you- I'm sorry I didn't know..." Disuse has made his sentence structure weak. He looks helplessly down at Oswald.

It occurs to him suddenly that he may not reciprocate.

"-I'm sorry I said that-"

"How long have you been in love with me?"

Brain freeze. Oswald's icy fingers on the stem of his mind. "Since you walked in. The very moment I saw you."

"Hmmm." He smiles. "Figured as much. Wouldn't be fair to make me confess when I fell in love second, now would it?"

Electroshock. Body tense. He seizes Oswald up into his arms, despite protests, reminders of the food, lips beseeching his own. Meticulous kiss after kiss down the length of his nose.

Oswald hums in agreement, like this was the perpetually good move, what Edward should have tried all along. He knows that for next time. His hands tangle in soft, unstyled hair and he moans, Oswald taking the opportunity to push Edward farther against himself. Good.

"My ridiculous, darling boy. You're _terrible_." But his eyes are fond, and Ed pulls him down for another kiss. "I'll have to just _tell_  you next time you're clueless about something like this, wouldn't want you to almost kill yourself over something so simple."

"Nothing is simple about you, Oswald."

"I'm sure you can figure it out, with that wonderful brain of yours."

His mind buzzes. "When did you know?"

"You were frightfully obvious, dear. You were so... _infatuated_  when you approached me. Of course I couldn't be sure, until I saw... all of _this_." His hand gestures vaguely to the pictures of him on his wall. "Hard to miss, I'm afraid."

Edward does not argue. If he was obvious in his affections, it wasn't presenting a problem now. The opposite, in fact. They seem ravenous, and while he thought this birdish man was going to eat him outside in, he knows it's from the inside out.

* * *

They too can see Oswald is special. They choose him for their experiments. The only one allowed to experiment on him is _Edward_.

He saw a movie like this once. Criminal boy is put away for murder, they torture him better, rehabilitated boy is sent out. Assailant seeks vengeance. Boy nearly dies. He returns to normal.

He can't help his mind from exploring every ghoulish outcome possible.

He holds his beloved through the convulsions.

He snatches all the profiles, criminal records, pictures off his wall and stuffs them into a notebook. There will be plenty of time for that later; after all, he has Oswald now, and he's sure he'll let him pick apart his brain as much as he wants, forever, always. Oswald is always with him, until they pry him away to shock those beautiful parts of him. He doesn't need pictures to look at in the dark anymore.

For now, he begins to draw a map of the asylum, plots out critical exit points. Writes down the nurses' schedules. Edward begins to think.

**Author's Note:**

> the statement that jerome was going to be "obsessed" with oswald in s4b kinda made me wonder of a similar scenario with nygmobs. edward is such an obsessive person that the small hints of him being so preoccupied with oswald when they first met was something that seemed under explored. 
> 
> anyway! hope you enjoyed!


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